


Don't Faint in Front of the Men

by spycandy



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stiff Upper Lip, kinkmeme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:49:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1366255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spycandy/pseuds/spycandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Treville puts up a stoic front after a painful injury. Everyone wants to look after him anyway.</p><p> </p><p>For the prompt: Athos, Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan take care of an ill or injured Treville.  Can be gen but I would prefer Athos/D'Artagnan/Treville/Aramis/Porthos. Bonus for cuddles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Faint in Front of the Men

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry there are no cuddles.

The musketeers’ horses were all trained for battle, of course -- conditioned to cope with riding towards blinding smoke and loud noise and angry men. So it was unclear quite why his horse suddenly panicked in the face of a half rotten pear, flung by an unseen hand from the rear of the crowd and so soft that it splattered on the cobbles of the square, near the creature’s hooves.

But panic it did, skittering backwards then rearing its forelegs skyward. Too late, he made a grab for the reins, dropping the scrolled proclamation he had been reading aloud to the crowd moments earlier, but to no avail. As the cobbles rapidly approached, he threw out his right hand to break the fall.

The pain was instant and for a moment all-encompassing. By the time he regained awareness of his surroundings he could see that D’Artagnan was attempting to bring the alarmed horse under control, while Athos and Porthos had moved their mounts forwards to place themselves between him and the Parisian crowd -- which was already dispersing now that its members had an entertaining pratfall by one of the city’s better known citizens to gossip about.

“Captain Treville?” It was Aramis, dismounted now and crouching by his side. “Are you hurt? Wait sir - don’t try to get up just yet.”

“I have no intention of lying about here in the street filth like a stray dog,” he snapped, hauling himself upright from the undignified position in which he had sprawled. The effort jarred his wrist and the pain again intensified, making the scene before him blur into a smear of chaotic colour. An arm slipped behind his shoulders, conveniently preventing him from slumping backwards and probably adding a concussion to the days’ mortifying woes.

Don’t faint in front of the men, he thought, gritting his teeth against the agony. Do not faint in the street in front of civilians.

“Fine,” he said, once the world swam back into focus. “Perhaps just a moment of sitting is wise.”

“Yes sir. I think that’s best. You went a very peculiar colour just then. Is it your arm?”

“Wrist took the brunt of it.” Treville flexed his fingers tentatively and hissed at the sharp jab of pain that made itself known over the already throbbing ache. “Going to bruise like a bastard.”

“That might be more than bruising,” said Aramis with a frown. “I’ll take a look when we get back to the garrison.”  

***

“I’m afraid it does need setting and splinting. I’ll get D’Artagnan to fetch a surgeon.”

He’d known that from the moment his hand hit the cobbles, he supposed, damn his luck. It was barely a couple of months since he’d been able to finally throw out that wretched sling protecting his left shoulder - and it still twinged at the end of a long day where it had been knocked from its socket by Labarge.  But he certainly wasn’t going to risk his sword arm on the skill of a Paris surgeon.

“I’m not in need of a bloody haircut, Aramis. You can set it.”

“Sir?”

“Half the men in this garrison can testify to your skill in patching them up. You might as well add your captain to their number.”

Aramis swallowed nervously. “But someone with more experience of bones…I mean, I’ve read the latest pamphlets out of Leiden on joints, but if you were to lose your grip strength from my clumsiness I’d never…”

“And if you let one of the city surgeons loose on me, will I even be able to hold my spoon?”

Aramis looked ready to continue the discussion, but at that moment Athos strode into the captain’s office brandishing a bottle. “Knew I had some left,” he said, dropping it onto Treville’s desk, where he could see from the maker’s mark that it was a rather good brandy.

“Little early in the day, isn’t it?” said Treville.

“Setting is going to hurt sir,” said Athos.

“I can stand pain,” he grunted. Honestly, he’d been shot twice in the course of his military career - his wrist might hurt like hell, but in the grand scheme of horrible things that could happen to a fighting man, there was no need for so much fuss over it.

“But if you jerk around when I’m aligning it, you could make it worse,” added Aramis. “If you want me to do this, I’d be a lot more comfortable if you were, how can I put this…?”

“Away with the brandy fairies?,” suggested Porthos, who had been watching in silence until that point. “He’s right sir. And we can’t very well use the, er, traditional method - punching a superior officer in the face could get us into a lot of trouble, even if we mean well by it.”

“Oh give it here then,” said Treville, easing out the stopper with his left hand and taking an enormous eye-watering swig direct from the bottle. Several further gulps prompted a raised eyebrow from Athos, though that might have been more at the rapid disappearance of his personal supplies than at his captain’s ability to down such a quantity in short order.

By the time Aramis had the splints and bandages laid out ready on the desk, the room was whirling around him in that unpleasant way it tended to when you got too drunk too quickly. It didn’t seem to help all that much with the next few moments of bone-grinding agony, however. Porthos was able to hold him still enough for the work to be done but by the time it was finished all the brandy seemed to have done was make him feel distinctly queasy. In fact...

“Sir, are you going to be sick?” That was young D’Artagnan, correctly interpreting his unhappy moan. There was some urgent shuffling around him before one of his makeshift surgeon’s assistants held something bowl-like in front him just in time.

His swimming vision finally settled enough to see that the object into which he had emptied the contents of his stomach was actually a hat. The distressed whimper from the man putting the finishing touches to his bandages was enough to tell him _whose_ hat.

***

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed before he was roused from uneasy slumber by raised voices - the afternoon light was gone, but certainly it had not been long enough for the fug of alcohol to have fully departed. Even in his befuddled state he recognised the cardinal’s voice outside the door.

“... is he?”

“It is nothing that won’t mend, but he is not currently receiving visitors.” That was Athos, whose best efforts as a guard dog would no doubt be ineffective, but at least gave him a few moments to collect himself before Richelieu swept into the room. It was perhaps fortunate that the merest shift of his carefully-strapped arm as he propped himself further up on the pillows of his makeshift bed still delivered a sobering jab of pain.  


“Your Excellency, I had no idea you had such concern for my well being,” he said through gritted teeth, as the man loomed over him.

“Hardly,” snapped Richelieu. “The King, however, asked me to deliver his heartfelt sympathies for your little accident in the square. Though I admit, it piqued my curiosity to see you felled by rotten fruit.”

An irritated cough-splutter drew both men’s attention to their previously unnoticed audience of musketeers, who appeared to have set up camp on the far side of the room. Aramis had a book open on his lap, while Porthos and D’Artagnan appeared to be quietly _polishing_ things. Defeated guard dog Athos now lounged in the doorway.

“Ah. How lucky you have your troupe of nursemaids to take care of you.”

The men visibly bristled at the description but in fairness, thought Treville, their very presence in the room suggested a degree of mother-hennish hovering over his sleep that was surely unnecessary for an injured wrist.

“At least they bring _me_ good brandy rather than mustard and castor oil emetic,” he shrugged, then made a mental note not to shrug again. Shrugging hurt. Still at least his point had hit home and he could take some satisfaction in the way the cardinal paled at the memory.

“The King says he hopes to see you recovered tomorrow to discuss security for the upcoming festivities,” he said, retreating backward towards the door.

“Very well. Until tomorrow.”

And then Richelieu was gone.

“Well that was fun,” said Treville. “What _are_ you lot doing here?”

“Taking excellent care of our uniforms?” suggested Porthos, sounding more than a little unconvinced that this was an adequate explanation for a sudden interest in quiet indoor pursuits.

“Do you not have your own rooms to do that in?”

“Sir, you did have rather a lot of brandy earlier.”

Ah, he realised. Yes it would be rather awkward to have your commanding officer choke to death on his own vomit after plying him with that much drink.  “Well I’m awake now and I’m not planning on dying tonight, so you may go and polish equipment elsewhere.”

“Yes sir,” said Athos, moving to help the others gather their things. As they were shuffling through the door, D’Artagnan turned back, and damn if the young fool didn’t look dejected at being dismissed to take the rest of the evening off. “Sir, do you want anything bringing before we go? Some supper?”

Treville resisted rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Out,” he snapped. “Let a man get some sleep.”

Once they were gone he sank back onto his pillows with a pained groan, relieved for a moment at no longer having to keep up the mask of stoicism. Lead by example, he reminded himself. Remaining self-possessed in the face of injury -- your own or another’s -- could be life-saving in a perilous situation. And while he faced no imminent danger, who knew but that years from now one of his men might not draw strength from the memory of their officer’s equanimity, however much it was faked.

Despite what he had told his quartet of watchers, sleep felt far off and he did somewhat regret turning down the offer of supper. With his right hand immobile and throbbing with pain, there was no chance of tackling any of the paperwork that was his usual cure for insomnia. In the end he settled for lying as still as possible, worrying about what future there might be for a former captain of musketeers who could no longer hold a sword.

***

He must have finally dozed off however, as he was woken by a light tap at his door and opened his eyes to find pale early morning light gleaming through the window.

“Come in.”

D’Artagnan pushed open the door with a foot, since he was carrying a tray. “Breakfast captain!” he announced with the kind of determined good cheer detested by invalids everywhere. Though he had to admit he was hungry. The sight of the plate both appalled and amused him in equal measure -- someone had cut pieces of fruit and cheese into perfect bite-sized pieces for him.

“I believe I could have managed an apple with my left hand,” he said.

“I told Old Serge as much, but he insisted. I think he would have mashed it for you if we’d let him.”

“Then my thanks for the solid food. I take it you drew the short straw this morning. Those reprobates have sent you on a mission to find out just how grouchy the old captain is today? Most unfair of them.”

“Oh no sir, I volunteered for the mission. I mean…”

Treville laughed at the youngster’s stricken face. “Come in you idiots,” he shouted. Three more musketeers shuffled sheepishly into the room. He regarded them all with affection. He knew they would fight for him, but there was something rather flattering about this quieter kind of loyalty.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to play valet this morning. I must dress for the palace and buttons were enough of a challenge when it was my left arm out of action.”

***

An even longer queue of supplicants than was usual had grovelled before the King so far, while Treville stood beside the throne and tried to distract himself from the ache in his wrist by making a count of the number of weapons displayed in the room. Decorative weaponry always seemed like such an unnecessary security threat.

But in the past few minutes the colour had gradually drained from his vision. It was like he was looking through a dull green stained glass, with dark spots spreading across it. Don’t faint in front of the court, he thought, drawing a sharp breath. You’ll really never live it down.

“Captain Treville?”

He wasn’t sure who had said his name, but was relieved to find it had snagged his fading consciousness and chased the black spots back to the periphery of his vision.

“Really captain, you look most unwell,” said the king. “Oh! Quick, someone fetch him a chair!”

It clearly didn’t even occur to Louis that he himself was the only one in the room sitting on any kind of a seat. Not that Treville would have consented to sit on the throne of France even if the only alternative was to crumple to the floor.

 

He was only really being prevented from doing exactly that by a firm hand tucked subtly under his left elbow, where the cardinal had drawn close. Dear God, he must look at death’s door to elicit such an act of kindness from Richelieu.

Athos ran up carrying a plain wooden bench from the nearby guards antechamber and placed it behind Treville, who sank onto it with gratitude and hoped the noble hangers-on around the edges of the room couldn’t tell how much he was shaking.

The king, however, could clearly see the captain of his musketeers trembling like a blancmange. He peered at Treville and bit worriedly at his lower lip.

“My apologies your majesty, it will pass in a…”

“Quiet Treville,” interrupted Louis. “It is I who should apologise. I summoned you here when you are clearly not recovered enough from your injury to stand for hours in a hot room. It was thoughtless and I am sorry.”  


Treville blinked, wondering whether this was a pain-induced hallucination, but everyone gathered in the inner circle around the throne had been stunned into silence. They had never heard such unprompted contrition from the king.

Despite the dizziness, Treville was the first to recover the power of speech, so was able to respond with reasonable good grace. “I thank your majesty. But now that I am seated, we can return to the matter…”

“No, no. I know what it is to be unwell captain, perhaps better than you robust soldier fellows do. Go away. Rest. Drink spiced wine. You will recover the sooner and return to us your old self.”

Oh good Lord, had Louis been taking lessons in mollycoddling from his musketeers? Not that getting thoroughly drunk at the king’s direct command didn’t have an enormous appeal right now. God, his wrist hurt.

“Leave the dour bearded fellow here,” added Louis. “He’s the one who knocked Savoy around so satisfyingly isn’t he? I’m sure he can handle the arrangements for the festival.”

“Monsieur Athos, Your Majesty,” said Treville, making the formal introduction as he realised that argument was going to get him nowhere.

Athos himself was throwing him alarmed looks.

“You’ll do fine,” he muttered, struggling back to his feet and ignoring Porthos’s proffered arm - he was not going to be helped from the room like a swooning maiden. “Just ensure the layout of the marquees preserves the eyeline for our marksmen and doesn’t create any obvious hiding places.”

“Take good care of him,” said Louis, and the musketeers bowed their acquiescence.

It was only in the coach back to the garrison that he realised what the king had just done to him.

***

“This,” said Captain Treville, “is ridiculous. Will you all please stop cossetting me and get on with some training?”

“I’m afraid we can’t,” said Porthos, pouring out a cup of something highly scented. “Direct orders from the king. Who outranks you. Anyway, this spiced wine his majesty sent over smells top notch.”

“Would you like me to read aloud to you?” asked Aramis. “It might help to pass the time.”

“You could read out the regimental ledger, see if we can’t at least get the books balanced while I’m out of action.”

Aramis tutted. “That hardly sounds restful. Perhaps some poetry?”

“No poetry,” chorused Porthos and D’Artagnan and Treville laughed at them. Their wilfully excessive care was genuinely making him feel better and the young men were amusing company while the normal rules of off-duty socialising between the ranks seemed to have been temporarily suspended.

They agreed on Aramis reading the new _Academie de l'Espée,_ which resulted in many interruptions to disagree with Thibault’s views on swordsmanship, and the time passed agreeably enough. If he kept completely still, his arm barely hurt and the spiced wine lulled him into comfortable numbness.

Eventually Athos returned from the palace, looking weary. “Is it always so hard to get a decision?” he asked. “Just when you think you have a workable plan, someone else wants a banner, or a new fountain just where the honour guard will stand. And the cardinal keeps on trying to post red guards where musketeers should clearly be.”

Treville gave him a sympathetic nod and motioned with his left hand for Porthos to pour his substitute a cup of the spiced wine.

“You kept the red guards in their place?”

“I believe I did.”

“Then join us in taking apart this new rapier manual Aramis is reading.”

And pain or no pain, it was actually hard to remember an afternoon spent in such easy company.

***

Six weeks later he could hold a sword again, though he saw Aramis grimace every time he actually hit something with it. The festival had gone off without a single musketeer-related hitch. They’d had to haul some noble fellow out of the new fountain, but Athos could take well-earned pride that none of his planning was responsible for that.

He could also hold a pen, which meant paperwork was sadly once again his domain. He signed for the cartload of requisitions that had just arrived and noted with pleasure the additional package he had ordered. Leaving the rest for the quartermaster to deal with, he picked up the paper-wrapped item and headed back up the stairs.

He stopped half way, leaning on the banister to watch the musketeers training in the yard - with Porthos occasionally shouting out unhelpful quotations from Thibault to make the others laugh and put them off their stride.

“Aramis!” called down Treville and waited until the clatter of swords had stopped and he had the attention of the whole crowd. “I believe I owe you this.”

He threw the package to the man below, who caught it and tore off the paper to reveal a fine new hat.

As Aramis spluttered in surprise, Treville raised his right hand and waved off the thanks without any pain at all.

The End

 


End file.
